His dark eyes were looking into hers. There was an expression in them that was strange to her. He smiled, but it seemed to Mary that there was effort behind the smile.
'Of course we have, Eddy,' she said. He touched her hand.
'Dear little Mary!' he said, softly.
He paused for a moment.
'Mary,' he went on, 'you would like to do me a good turn? You would, wouldn't you, Mary?'
'Why, Eddy, of course!'
He touched her hand again. This time, somehow, the action grated on her. Before, it had seemed impulsive, a mere spontaneous evidence of friendship. Now there was a suggestion of artificiality,—of calculation. She drew back a little in her chair. Deep down in her some watchful instinct had sounded an alarm. She was on guard.
He drew in a quick breath.
'It's nothing much. Nothing at all. It's only this. I—I—Joe will be writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday—Thursday remember. There won't be anything in it—nothing of importance—nothing private—but—I—I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A—a copy of—'
She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.